That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. She's plenty clean below. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. He rested on one elbow. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily.
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